Episode 18: Celebrating the harvest

October is approaching fast, and as our trips downtown get more and more disturbed by the influx of tourists in Salem, I am getting more and more used to being a stay at home Dad.

The first month has gone admittedly more smooth than I expected, and I am learning a lot about myself in the process. Fatherhood has changed me in a lot of ways that I didn't expect, and I find myself doing things that I never thought of doing before. For example, I never even owned a camera before Av came along. Never took pictures of anything, aside from the occasional camera phone shot of something funny that I would send to one of my friends. Today alone I have taken six photos of stupid faces she makes, and it isn't even noon.

I also find myself doing all sorts of fatherly things now, like going to the store with my slippers on, getting angry when the neighbors are loud and, of course, carting my family around on lame day trips.

That was the scene Monday when, thanks to Swampscott's predominately  Jewish population, Mommy was given the day off from her teaching job at the middle school to celebrate Yom Kippur, thus allowing me to pile the family in to the car for a day trip to the apple farm.

Growing up in Western Mass. I, of course, have done my fair share of apple picking as a child, and my trips to Bartlett's Orchard rank among the millions of memories I have of the simple, rural life that we lead in that mysterious country west of Springfield. These memories are also the primary reason that I now live next to the ocean in a city 20 miles from Boston. Needless to say, other than picking apples, there is not much to do for a teenager out there other than drink, drive around like an idiot and experiment with, well lets just leave it at 'local plant life.'

Apple picking was something that I scoffed at as recently as a few weeks ago, when I made the comment to someone that at my age, apple picking was pretty much only good for lame family activities and taking a chick out on what would be destined to become a failed first date.

Still, when Mommy said she wanted to go, I didn't argue, as it really did seem like a nice family activity, as lame as it may sound, and I also anticipated lots of unintentional comedy from the 7-month-old goof ball that I tote around all day.

We decided that our destination would be Brooksby Farm in Peabody. A beautiful, sprawling piece of nature stuffed in between the extravagant North Shore Mall and the driving equivalent to hell, Routes 1 and 114.

We arrived at the farm shortly before noon on Monday to find the place packed with families. This was not something that we anticipated, as we figured most kids would be in school (as far as I know, only Swampscott and Marblehead kids get Jewish holidays off) and Jewish people tend to be incredibly somber on their holidays, which would rule out apple picking. (This somber Jewish holiday thing caught me by surprise. My whole life I remember holidays as an excuse to eat, laugh, hang out and watch my family- and later me- get drunk. I once had to attend a Jewish holiday celebration for the newspaper and it was the single most depressing three hours of my life.)

In any event, we parked the car, waited in line for about 15 minutes to get our apple picking bag (time spent almost entirely listening to the bitchy moms complain that the line was too long, all while ignoring their rambunctious kids) and went on our way to the orchard, which was plagued by idiot children firing apples at each other, rolled ankles caused by stepping on said apples and one sad couple who appeared to be replacing the fact that they didn't have a child with a small bull dog. Man, do dog people creep me out. Especially ones who treat their dogs like pseudo-children.

We quickly noticed that the designated apple-picking grove was not only over-populated, but pretty much baron of apples at that point, so we snuck off to an adjacent grove and stared to pick from some uncompromised trees. There were no signs saying that we couldn't be there, but there were two old women kind of hiding in the bushes who I did overhear talking about how the area was 'of limits'. They were obviously more concerned with being caught than we were, as they laid low like they were in Vietnam. Meanwhile I am holding my kid up to grab apples and taking pictures right out in the open, wondering why more people haven't figured out what we have.

Whatever the case, the half hour we spent picking apples was both hilarious and fun. We gave the baby her own apple, which she loved, and we took plenty of pictures before heading back. We never were confronted about being in the illegal grove.

Before leaving we decided to visit the petting zoo, where our confused baby got a look at a sheep, an emu, some chickens, a turkey and two pigs. She seemed to enjoy the pigs the most, but that experience was ruined by two idiot kids who thought it was funny to throw apples at the pigs, and their idiot parents who let them.

It was at this point that I realized, for all the things that have changed about me since having a child, a few things remain the same. I still have little to no patience, I pretty much can't stand children (other than my own, of course) and I think I hate parents even more.

I am actually dreading when Av makes friends and I have to do the whole pick up./ drop off, mingle with parents thing. 

Our style of parenting is probably what most "experts" would consider pretty unconventional (all of you out there with 'hippie' parents, we are the modern day equivalent), but watching other people parent infuriates me most of the time. Talk to your kid like a normal human being, not an idiot. Don't make stupid rules for the sake of making rules, it just makes the kid want to break them and finally, maybe if you paid a little more attention to what your kids were doing instead of trying to out-status the other moms at soccer practice with your yoga pants, private schools and SUV's your little moron kids wouldn't throw apples at pigs when they go to the farm.

How hard is it to treat your kids like real people? I look at it like I have a 7-month-old adult, and I feel like, even though she can't talk, she appreciates me not treating her like an idiot. Just my humble parenting opinion. 

That is my rant for the day. If you have kids, take them apple picking. If you don't, by all means, avoid it. Unless, of course, you have a stupid little dog you'd like to pretend is your child. In which case, by all means, slap a collar on him and hold him up to see the sheep.

Episode 17: Parenting on 10-minutes sleep

All in all, the past month or so has been pretty sleepless for me to begin with, as Av is usually up with the sun and we live in the loudest neighborhood in America. I have gotten used to the early rising and the interrupted naps. I just drink a lot of Red Bull and do my best to find things for us to do that involve a lot of travel or movement, so I don't doze off standing up.

Today, however, was and still is the roughest day that I have had to encounter yet.

My bad luck actually started very early this morning, before I went to bed, at around midnight. I was scheduled to close the bar at work, which on the weekends usually keeps me out until 1:30-2, but on a regular week night I can usually be ready to close right when we do last call at 12. Most of the time there are one or two people left who leave right away, then I mop the floor and get the hell out. Last night was an added bonus because I had a trainee working with me, which means I do half the work and we finish up in half the time. Nice.

Things went awry right at midnight, after I did last call, when I was trying to get all of my customers to pay so I could have my register counted. One particularly hostile man was refusing to pay for his $6.25 tab (which I was going to have to pay if he didn't). In the grand scheme of things $6.25 is no big deal, but it wasn't like the guy walked out, he just straight up refused to pay. His reasoning? He paid his friend's tab instead (a claim that was later discovered to be untrue). So it was the principle of the matter, and I was determined to make him pay.

The conversation went something like this.

"Hey, man, are you taking off? You forgot to pay your tab."

"No way, I paid it, you liar."

"Nope. You didn't, its right here. $6.25."

"Fuck you, I just dropped $120 at this fucking place. I just gave my friend $120 for his tab!" (Untrue. His friend's tab was $18 and the girl he was with paid it).

"I didn't ask you to pay your friend's tab, I'm asking you to pay your tab. I don't care how much money you spent tonight, you owe me $6.25."

"Fuck you, you want this skateboard. How 'bout that. Take this skateboard. I'll leave that here 'cuz you aint getting any more of my money."

"I don't want your skatboard man, just pay your tab. That's all I'm asking. I don't think that is unreasonable."

"Fuck you." (At this point he walks out, while giving me the finger. Awesome.)

I knew I wasn't going to have to pay the tab because my manager watched the whole thing go down, so I wasn't that pissed, it was what my manager did next that ruined my chances of leaving early.

When the dude left his skateboard a kid across the bar asked if he could have it. I told him I'd sell it to him for $6.25. This was actually going to take place until the dude who walked out's friend came back in looking for his skateboard. yep. Dude not only walked out on his tab, but tried to sell his friend's skateboard. Nice.

Long story slightly less long, this somehow led to my manager, Robert,  (who's creepiness and weirdness I can not even begin to describe here) in to a, no exaggeration, 45-minute conversation with the four remaining customers in the bar. The kid who was going to pay for the skateboard, his buddy and the two VERY scantily clad Asian girls they were there with. I mean VERY scantily clad, too. Like one of those deals where it is difficult to wait on them because all you see is boob flowing out all over the bar top.

Anyway, I paid little attention to the conversation, as I was irritated that it was happening and was preventing me from going home, but a few times I walked by to hear Robert talking about such enthralling topics as losing money in the stock market, investing in Green Mountain Coffee, living in California and employing Brandon Boyd, the lead singer of Incubus, in his coffee shop and at one point I honestly heard him ask the question, "Have you ever met anyone from Zimbabwe?" Of course the kids, who were pretty drunk, were loving the interaction. Even the Asian girls, whose skirts were even skimpier than their shirts, looked semi-interested in what Rob had to say.

(This would mark the first time ever anyone, Asian or not, gave a shit about what Rob had to say, by the way.)

This conversation irritated me on many levels, not the least of which was that it caused me to arrive home no earlier than 1:15. I hadn't eaten since about 4 p.m., so I had to eat before bed, which means I didn't get in between the sheets until almost 2. Which was seemingly the point in time where the party down the street just got going.

Along with the faint beat of music I could hear what I only imagine would have been the championship round in a game of flip cup, or beer pong, or some drinking game. There was cheering, yelling, good 'ol fashioned fun. A very high-stakes competition, indeed. If I were still 22 I would have been there. But I'm not. Instead I was in bed, counting the minutes until I had to wake up and take care of an infant. So I was pissed.

After the party wrapped up the idiot from across the street, who Monica calls Seth Rogan because they have the same laugh, came home from what I believe to be a separate, equally as raging party. Also drunk, he got out of his friend's car and decided he was going to continue their loud conversation about some chick named Stacy in the street. At this point, Monica was up feeding the baby, and I could actually hear the re-verb from the conversation in the baby monitor.

Sleep finally came around 3:30, but was short-lived as obese sweatpants family across the street decided to have a domestic squabble around 4:30-5. I never really catch what they are fighting about, but given their lack of personal hygiene and extreme weight problems across the board, I can imagine that tensions are pretty high in that house most of the time. If I were that huge, I'd be miserable, too.

In any event, the baby woke up at 6:30, probably tired herself from being woken up by all the noise. I sleep waked through the first segment of the morning, trying desperately to wake up. Around 8:30 I deided it was nap time.

I loaded Av in to the car and she fell asleep instantly. Yes. Awesome. Now we can both take a nice, long nap. No such luck.

First, we were both awoken by a field trip group of elementary school kids walking by the house on some sort of  ghetto scavenger hunt. The teacher stood directly below my window and shouted at some kid named Kevin, and then spewed instructions for the kids to find a red fire alarm box. I didn't get a chance to hear what was  next, but I'll bet it was to open a fire hydrant and let the water flow like a sprinkler, or count the stray cats, or follow the faint smell of weed to the nearest unemployed person. "Hey kids, welcome to the ghetto. Make sure you go to college and apply yourself or you could live here."

I thought we managed to avoid the kids ruining nap time, but if we did the asshole next door with the contracting business put the final nail in our coffin. Aside from having the loudest, most obnoxious dog ever, the proprietor of Goodwin General Contractors is also a huge dickhead who is always yelling at his employees on the phone and bribing Mexians with cash to help him finish projects.

He is based out of his white trash garage, so throughout the day I get to see and hear this happen right next to me. This morning he was yelling at somebody who apparently did something wrong, and it appeared that the punnishment for that was to mow his lawn, because that is what happened next. All but ending our nap.

"Nobody wants to work, they all want to get paid. Well, you want to get paid, you lazy fuck, your going to work." real quote. 

The only positive about this situation is that Av is tired, too. So she has been pretty chill today. So far I have fallen asleep on the floor making sure she doesn't hurt herself when she crawls, on the couch watching Sesame Street, briefly in the kitchen standing up watching her walk in her little walker car and for about ten minutes on my own bed while she was still in the walker car.( I had initially sat down to put on socks and ended up falling asleep instead).

This afternoon we have a trip to the park planned, and maybe a stop at the library. Hopefully that will tire her out enough, and hopefully my ghetto neighbors will stay quiet and I can sneak in a nap before I have to go to the Lynn Item tonight.

Oh yeah, that was short lived, too. Turns out they really do need someone to help out with School Committee meetings. Dammit. I'm going to get drunk first...

Episode 16: Losing patience with kids shows

As much as I don't necessarily like to do it, much of the days with Av are spent watching a variety of Baby Einstein videos, as they keep her attention, make her laugh and are supposedly educational. All things that I typically fail at.

There are several editions to the series, most of which we own, and a few that I You Tube for her. The concept of these videos is really not much different than the videos we remember as children, like Sesame Street or Mr. Rogers Neighborhood, but there is less of a human element. Most of Baby Einstein is done with sock puppets, random video clips and voice overs.

Some of the videos are excruciating to get through and others aren't bad. There is one that is even down right enjoyable. That would be the Baby Newton video, which features the original song 'I know my shapes.'

Check out the song, you won't be disappointed (although, if you have a fear of clowns or animated crayons, you may be terrified). 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mE9aSBK1X9U

Later, presumably when Disney bought the company, they re-did this song for a video called 'Discovering Shapes' and replaced the soulful, fun shapes song with a really shitty, more optimistic version that sounds like it is sung by Faith Hill, or some other generic female vocalist. But, I digress.

My point is that I have been watching these videos for weeks. Baby McDonald (about the farm), Baby Mozart and the Numbers Nursery are all popular episodes.

Usually when she is watching them I try to watch TV, or videos on line, depending on which one she is using to watch her videos. Lately though, I am running out of things to watch. Hulu is slowly taking Arrested Development episodes off, I've seen almost all of the A-Team episodes they have and there is absolute shit on TV during the day, unless you love judge shows. (The only one I really like is Judge Mathis, because he's from the streets).

In any event, I have been trying to broaden the baby's horizons for my own sanity by looking up other kid's videos on You Tube. She likes Sesame Street, but they don't keep her interest because of the poor image quality. I refuse to subject myself to Barney or the Teletubbies, so I have been experimenting with things I have never heard of.

 Bad Idea.

I have honestly  never seen the baby as terrified of anything as she was when she saw this video titled "More Milk Please"


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q-dEuoQ1Lo4

The song itself is creepy as hell, but look at that animation!

Baby sign language appears to be a big thing, and this shitty lady looks to have the market cornered. Also, enjoy the dance...


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zHwg17I2hNQ

This one also made her cry.

Needless to say, there is not a lot to see on You Tube that isn't going to terrify my child. I guess I am just going to have to watch this stupid horse puppet help this stupid tiger count to five, AGAIN.

In other news, she can now almost crawl, which is a big improvement from the Army crawl she was doing before.Unfortunately, she mostly goes backwards so there have been more than a few times I have found her under the couch looking confused, with only her head sticking out.

In neighborhood news, the obese sweat pants family across the street is fighting again. "Oh Jesus Christ, Mom, leave me ALONE!." I just heard that from the front porch. All while a clan of Mexican painters listens to Jack Johnson next door.You'd think the carefree, easy going spirit of the music would calm them down. Then again, Jack Johnson is a pretty big pussy, so that might irritate me too if I was already mad at my mom who I still live with at 30. I think I have figured out the dynamic over there, though. The retarded adult lives with his brother, his wife and two kids and elderly mother. Most of them are fat. The mom isn't, but she wears elastic waste pants.Still gross. They do drive a Dodge Neon, and I have to say that is a sight to behold watching those people climb in and out. You can literally hear the car creek. Again, I digress....

Episode 15:The affair with Professor Richard H. Neck

Another week has come and gone and I have already lost track of how long I have been doing this baby watching thing. Probably not as long as it feels like I have. In fact, I think this is the first five-day week I've had to endure, with the Monday holiday and short school work weeks for Mom. Overall it has been a good experience, but two things definitely stand out to me.

1. The days are incredibly long
2. Nothing happens. Ever. It is the same thing. Every day.

There are some days that are so boring that when she is taking a nap and I feel like I should be writing, I realize there is literally nothing different than the day before, except for the contestants on the Price is Right. Hence the spotty blog entries.

One thing I have taken to doing is assigning roles and personalities to all of her human and animal-based toys. For example, car seat rides are always supervised by Sheriff Duck, to make sure nothing goes wrong, and she is always accompanied by one of her body guards, bath toy whale, bath toy dragon or bath toy shark/ marlin (it is tough to say which one it actually is, I have also heard votes for dolphin, but it is definitely not a dolphin).

Out of her group of stuffed and plastic animal friends, a heated love triangle has surfaced between her first boyfriend, Grover, the teddy bear she is cheating on him with and her new flame, a multi-colored bird with a 3-inch green neck named Professor Richard H. Neck (or, Dick Neck, as we call him behind his back).

Grover came on the scene early on as one of her first toys, and he has been getting the face-suck (a baby's form of affection?) on the regular for a fairly long time. It wasn't until the teddy bear (who is nameless) came on the scene with his fleecy soft face and his cold plastic nose that things with Grover started to cool off. I noticed more passionate face sucking and a lot more cuddling, probably because he is so much softer than Grover.

Grover would still come around, but the bear started sticking around during relaxing with video time, which used to be exclusively for Grover.

Dick Neck has been around probably longer than the other two, but was relegated to bedroom shelf status until a few weeks ago when, in a moment of passion and weakness, their eyes connected and Av demanded I carry her over to the shelf to see this beautiful specimen of a bird. Since that time, Mr. Neck has been around pretty much all of the time. Not to mention, he gets a little bit more tail than the other two. Rather than just a kiss and cuddle, she will put the bird's entire head in her mouth... Weird.

It appears that she is able to balance her men pretty easily, which is good. She should get it all out of her system now, because when she goes to school there will be no boys. She will either be a lesbian or a nun. Those are the only two choices.

So, I guess after this week I have learned something. My daughter has a thing for birds, and I am completely losing my fucking mind. At this rate, I will be in a straight jacket by Christmas.

Episode 14: Mr. Mom goes to the park

For two weeks I have been avoiding the little kid's playground at the park near our house, despite the only reason for my presence at the park being that I am escorting a little kid. I have been telling myself the reason for this is that Av is too small, she can't walk, she can't use the slide. But deep down, the real reason is that I simply do not have enough confidence in myself to mingle among moms and grandmothers and, frankly, I am intimidated by young children.

Because of this, our trips to the park usually consist of looking at leaves, playing in the grass and me pointing at the ocean and her not caring, but today I decided to suck it up, cut through the grass and put her in a damn swing.

When we first go there I only saw one other child and a young mother on a cell phone, so I decided it was safe and just decided to go to the other end of the playground. Soon after, however, the park filled up with a wide variety of presumably unemployed women and their offspring. Some together as a social group, some on their own with just the kids.

I brought Av over to the swing where no one was and realized that she was very intrigued with what the other kids were doing. It was almost like she said to herself, "damn, I wish I was two or three, then I could climb up to the top of the slide with that girl wearing the Cookie Monster overalls."

After 10 minutes or so, another woman came over to use the second swing, but she did not seem interested in talking to me, which, believe me, was just fine. Their trip to the swing set was a quick one, as the little girl had a melt down and had to be taken away to wherever soccer mom's take their screaming kids, like "time out" in the minivan or something.

As the first woman left and the other children moved closer, I decided that Av may like it more if we sat on the picnic table next to the jungle gym and watched the other kids. In this same area was the original mom that I saw when we first got to the park. Her kid was wandering around unattended and she was on the phone with one of her girlfriends complaining about someone I assume was her live-in boyfriend.

"I told him this morning that he was just digging himself a deeper hole," she said. "I am not even going to stick around past tonight, he is just like all of the other guys, give them two months and they go crazy and get all weird."

This conversation was both inappropriately loud and extremely satisfying to me, as the slightly older, more uptight yuppie soccer moms seemed irritated with this woman's actions. Soccer moms have a very distinct glare, I found.

To make matters worse (or better, if you are me) the woman's daughter, Nadia, kept throwing rocks at the other kids, which resulted in a lot of... "Ugh, hold on. NADIA!!! WE DON'T THROW ROCKS! NOT COOL! Sorry about that, she is just being such a brat today."

Much to my surprise, and enjoyment, the soccer moms wanted absolutely nothing to do with us. It was probably a combination of my appearance (scruffy beard, uncombed, probably too long hair and old, ripped jeans) and some sort of "men should be working in corporate America while women watch children" mentality that they have.I am basing that on nothing, by the way, other than my general distaste for soccer moms and twisted vision of my own appearance.

I did feel a little bad for Av because I knew she wanted to play with the other kids,but I was glad to avoid any conversation with a middle aged woman toting along two toddlers and a baby anyway. Av would have been too small to play with Nadia the Rock Thrower anyhow.

Unfortunately for Av, we were getting ready to leave when a little probably 1-year-old boy that I am pretty sure she found attractive showed up with his grandfather. I could tell that she thought he was cute because instead of the usual laughing and inquisitive staring she does when most kids are around her, she stared at him, mouth open and then buried her face in my chest when he looked at her.

He went over to the swing as we were starting to walk away (we were on a strict time schedule, if she didn't get lunch soon no one, not even little wonder boy boyfriend could stop the hunger melt down). I was disappointed only because her new boyfriend was there with his grandfather, and it would have been nice to have another male around the playground to balance off some of that estrogen and sense of entitlement that billows out the back of ther fancy $700 soccer mom strollers.

As we began to walk away, Nadia and her apparently newly single mother became the first, and only, people to talk to us at the park. After a "hello" and a standard "how old?" and "what is her name" I attempted to keep going by saying, "I have to get her home so she can eat"

Nadia's mother understood, but did not let me leave without first saying the following...

"She is adorable, much cuter than those other ugly girls Nadia was running around with over there."

Yup. That is a real statement. I could do nothing but awkwardly laugh and say something along the lines of, "Well I am sure she will grow up to be as cute as your daughter."

"Thank you," she said, and we parted ways.

Now, I did not pay particular attention to any of the other children there, but I did not notice anyone that was super ugly, and I have to say that Nadia was nothing special when it comes to being cute either. This is just the type of social gossip and cruelty I am trying to avoid.

Episode 13: LL Cool Dad

"So, you guys are, like, best pals now, huh?"

That was the line Mommy gave me in a rather resentful tone the other day, when she realized her worst fears had become a reality: the Daddy Daycare experiment has been fairly successful in its first two weeks of existence. I don't think that she necessarily wanted me to fail, but I do think that deep down she was hoping that the baby would be a little bit sick of me by the end of the day, or at the very least, give the impression that her time with Mommy was much more fun.

Not that I am saying it isn't, of course, but as it turns out, I am a pretty undeniably cool Dad. 

In actuality, I feel like infants would probably love and enjoy being around anyone who feeds them, makes them feel safe and hands them toys, but It appears that is not the case here. In this case, it appears that my daughter has realized how cool her Dad is. As a result, knock on wood, it looks like things are going well so far with this little partnership we have.

For starters, the screaming has stopped when she sees me first thing in the morning, and my body is adjusting to this whole 6 a.m. thing, which is actually becoming more like a 6:45 thing now (she's probably tired from all the unstoppable awesomeness and fun she has with me all day long).  She is also a big fan of when I feed her now, which was not the case for the first few days. I think it is because I give her the fancy apple sauce with the granola.

Apart from our playing and making faces at each other, we have started having fun running errands together. Of course, there are the Walmart trips and the walk to the Asian convenience store down the street, but I think I may have pushed it too far today. 

One of the things I have found about being home all day is that I find it difficult to get motivated to do things. In fact, I kind of almost understand why fat people on welfare and illegal immigrants with no jobs enjoy doing nothing all day. It is easy, and pretty relaxing. That, combined with three days of working this weekend means that we had a lot to do when Monday came around.

Usually Av is good for 1-2 errands, maybe three if she naps, but today I got cocky and we decided to hammer them all out at once. We got off to bad start right away because I asked her to "help" me hold the shopping list at Walmart, but then had to take it away from her when she tried to stuff the entire thing down her throat. Of course, this pissed her off and she proceeded to throw a fit. To compound things, the Salem Walmart was out of formula, which was the entire reason we were there, so I had to abandon the cart, load the baby back in the Impala and head for the Lynnway.

Believe it or not, the Lynnway Walmart is actually much nicer than the Salem location, but it is still Walmart. Av screamed at me the entire way to Lynn, before she dozed off as we were pulling in to the parking lot. Of course, that nap was short-lived, as a car alarm started screaming as soon as we got out of the car. Determined to complete my mission, and already like 25 minutes away from my house, I decided to just take the pissed off baby in to the store. It is Walmart. Surely she will not be the only crying baby. I did, and she wasn't. She actually calmed down by the time that we left. 

This, of course gave me the confidence to continue with my other errands. the Post Office was next. The closest post office to the Lynnway is in downtown Lynn, but I decided I didn't want to go that route, so I stopped at the one in Swampscott that is on the way to the bank. For some reason, this baby loves the Post Office. She was bright and smiley and having fun, so, I figured we could make it to the bank. Bad decision.

Almost immediately upon returning to the car after the Post Office trip she started screaming at me again, probably because she wanted to suck on my keys and I wouldn't let her. I was loosing cool Dad status, and fast. But I had a bunch of cash on me and I was determined, so in to Bank of America we went.

She was screaming when we came in, but the dim lights and faint music must have shocked her in to a state of calm, because she shut right up. For a second. I was barely done filling out the deposit slip when she started yelling at me. Not crying. Yelling. Like if she could talk she would say, "Dad, get me out of this fucking car seat NOW!"

Nothing makes pissed off babies more pissed off than when complete strangers think they are helping by getting in her face or trying to make her laugh. She is a baby, not a mental health patient. You asking her questions she can't answer is only annoying her. 

"Awwww, somebody wants a lollypop, don't you?"

No, she doesn't. She has no idea what a lollypop is. She wants to go home and play. And she wants you to leave her the hell alone. 

The bank teller was very nice, but one of her co- workers was really irritating. This fat old woman kept coming over and trying to talk to "him," (which she said like 13 times despite the fact that she was wearing jeans with a giant pink cupcake patch on them) and then decided that she, too was going to offer Av a lollypop. 

Really? Does she look old enough to have a fucking lollypop? She has two teeth. Come on. 

What happened next would have been something disastrous if I wasn't so annoyed with the woman and the other people in line who wouldn't leave her alone. She decided that in line at the bank would be a phenomenal time to take a massive dump. I'm talking one of those ones where her entire face turns red and you can smell it three blocks away. It was disgusting. But you know what? I don't care. I hope that bank lobby stinks like baby shit all day. You can blame fat Dawn with the red blouse. I think Av probably shit on purpose, just to get that irritating lady away from her. 

So, my mission was partially successful, achieving three of the five errands I had, all while persevering through several fits and melt downs and an epic dump that no doubt is still choking bank customers. My cool Dad points did definitely take a hit today, which means Av will probably be happy to see Mom this afternoon when she gets dropped off. That will make Mom happy and give me a chance to figure out something cool to do tomorrow. Hopefully I won't have to go to Walmart again.

Episode 12- Cry, nap, cry. Repeat.

I don't remember being an infant, but for all of the things that I would think I loved about it (sleeping whenever I wanted, new toys all of the time, no obligation to go to work), I think the last two days have convinced me that the whole "adjusting to life" thing is pretty bogus.

I would like to think that I am a pretty cool Dad. I am fun to hang out with. I don't get drunk and yell, or bring shady women home or beat anyone up. I am pretty flexible and my tolerance for shitty children's programing is pretty high (this, of course, coming from a guy who almost exclusively watches auto racing, Dog the Bounty Hunter and re-runs of Arrested Development and the A-Team online).

But for some reason, despite my coolness the past two days have been epically miserable for Av, who essentially has done nothing but cry, nap and eat. I suspect that it is entirely because of the teething, which has to be painful. She really only seems happy when she is gumming a chew-toy, or her personal favorite, a nice, cold Poland Spring bottle (she prefers beer bottles, actually, but I try to curb that since A. that will tempt me to drink the beer and then give her the bottle and B. if I don't open it it will skunk).

I also suspect that aside from the pain of pushing through a tooth or two, the effects of baby Tylenol cannot be kind to a stomach that has experienced little more than Gerber and formula since birth. This only compounds her misery and results in some pretty nasty looking poop, too.

(If anyone is looking for a quick, cheap good time, get yourself some baby Oragel. That was the best 15 minutes I spent all day. Your gums go numb. FUN! Now if only they made something that does that to adults... wait. They do. It is called cocaine. Baby Oragel is much safer. Trust me.)

The only good thing that has come out of the two-day fit-throwing marathon is that she is taking lot of naps, so I have opportunities to do things like laundry. It is nice knowing that I was able to wash the sheets today, and I can now sleep with confidence that I am not laying on a puke stain from earlier in the day. (Sometimes I just toss her on the bed and let her roll around until she gets tired. She pukes almost every time.)

I guess the one thing that I have learned is why people charge so much for day care. I used to think $300/ week was outrageous, but to be perfectly honest, if Av wasn't my kid and I had to spend all day with her, I'd probably put her in the trash. It is unreal the patience you have for your own kid. I can barely stand being behind someone at the self-checkout. I routinely threaten people on bicycles who ride with traffic. Yet I somehow manage not to lose my temper when an infant kicks me in the chest with a foot she just dragged through her own poop. Unreal.

If I had to watch 3-4 kids every day, each one with their own ass ache, I'd probably demand a grand from each parent. Which brings me to my point. The government should take the money that they are wasting in Iraq, or wherever you happen to think the government is wasting money (there are plenty of choices) and pay stay-at-home parents a weekly salary. I know, I know, this sounds an awful lot like welfare. Well, I don't qualify for welfare because I am a little too put together for the government. So, I think it is time for a new initiative. This way, you can eliminate pretentious, yuppie moms who open day care centers and actually allow people to raise their own kids. So kids never end up in the trash. Perfect idea. Dan Baer for President in 2012. Anyone with me? Anyone?

Episode 11- Living at Walmart

For the first time in probably 22 years I woke up on the Tuesday after Labor Day and didn't have to go to school or work of some kind. Although, I still probably woke up earlier than I would have for either one of those activities, it is still kind of a good feeling.

The good feeling lasted all of about 20 seconds, though as, unlike previous successful attempts, Mommy was unable to get out the door without being seen today, meaning I was stuck listening to the screams of abandonment and fear for the next 20 minutes. It also doesn't help that Av is teething, which means that the cries are more intense and followed by a lot more drool.

So, as the loud little bastards from the neighborhood FINALLY got on the bus for the first time, Av and I did what any two red-blooded, God fearing, unemployed Americans should do with a week day morning. We went to Walmart.

Back in my younger, thinner Western Mass days, Walmart was the place to be. That was before Target came along and convinced us that it was worth spending a little bit more for a cleaner, smiley face-free environment.

As I grew older and my priorities changed (and they ditched the smiley faces) I have found myself frequenting America's original "Big Box" store once again. Mostly because formula is like $4 cheaper there than it is at Target.

So, unshowerd, unshaven and wearing a shirt that said "Coors Rodeo" I loaded the little guy in to the Impala and we went on our way. She must have known where we were going because she was grouchier than she usually is when we get in the car. I can't imagine that there is really a "nice" Walmart any where in America, but the location on the Lynn/ Salem line is particularly sketchy and dirty, so I can't blame her.

Walmart at any time of any day is a cultural experience at the very least, but I have to say Tuesday morning after the Back to School rush has to be one of the most surreal things I have ever seen.

First of all, the store was packed. Absolutely packed with a clientele that consisted mainly of Spanish couples, and their subsequent 3-7 children each.

The first thing that crossed my mind when I walked in to the store is probably the same thing you are thinking right now. "I thought school started today." It did. You're right. School started today just about everywhere, including Lynn and Salem. I have no explanation. None.

Given the large amount of children roaming the already disheveled store it was nearly impossible to even navigate the stroller down some aisles. There was literally one section of the store that was covered in Cheerios from a box that looked like it had been stomped on by 8-12 small children and then torn apart by a large cat.

On a side note, this Walmart does not have any hand baskets. Really? No hand baskets, Walmart? Do you have any idea how hard it is to push a carriage and a stroller at the same time?

On the way to the always entertaining baby section I passed my fair share of wolf t-shirts and little kid clothes with attitude (what 2-year-old knows what "Orange County Choppers" is?) but by far the worst/greatest thing in the entire store was a T-shirt that simply read "The King" and featured a full body shot of Michael Jackson from the "Thriller" days, immortally standing on his toes with his hat covering his eyes. This shirt was also in youth sizes, which made me wonder "how many kids actually know what this means?" But, then I remembered that MJ fans are crazy, and a little disturbed, and they probably subjected their children to 24-hour coverage of his death and forced them to listen to countless replays of "Billy Jean" in the days following.

(In a now defunct blog that I used to write about zombies, I made the case on the day he died that Michael Jackson should be buried immediately before he rises from the dead and starts feasting on the brains of children, but I digress...)

Now, being a 25-year-old single dad with a less than functional personal life does not exactly make me a model parent, but Jesus, the cast of characters in the baby section of Walmart made us look like the friggin family of the year.

Even tossing aside the countless Spanish families touting around 7-year-olds who should be in school, we got to witness the trashiest of white trash at their finest. What is it about overweight parents that make them want to scream at their kids in public? There was one sweat-pants adorned family who had an infant probably 2-3 months older than Av, who were literally screaming at the poor little guy because he shit his pants in Walmart. (For the record, my kid shit her pants in Walmart, too, but I waited until we got home to changer her. Also, I did not scream at her).

Apart from the parents with small children, there were also a lot of elderly people shopping around. I am one of those people that likes the elderly. Old men make me laugh, old ladies are adorable. If I were a millionaire, I would have a nursing home. It would be like having 50 pet old people.

That said, letting old people go to Walmart by themselves is not something I support. Every time I turned a corner there was another decrepit old biddy trying to compare prices between two rolls of toilet paper, the labels of which she has no shot of reading anyway.

Once we navigated the human obstacles of the store, Ava and I got in line where, as usual, she was the star of the show. Everyone wanted to see the beautiful baby. Everyone wanted to ask about her. Everyone spoke directly to her like she was going to answer and then said "she is shy" when she didn't.

No. Idiot. she is not shy. She is an f-ing baby. What the hell do you want her to say?

"Hey little baby, how are you in there?"

"Oh, I'm ok, I'm a little big for this seat and I'd really like to get home before the Price is Right starts, but other than that I'm good. How are you?"

Ridiculous.

Of course, there always has to be one person who pushes it too far and gets in her face and makes her cry. In this case it was the cashier, who made her cry and then said

"She's grouchy today."

No. She is not. You are just an idiot and its pissing her off. Just like her Daddy.

After nearly being killed in the parking lot three or four times by a combination of old/ Spanish drivers and making a quick pit stop at the liqueur store so Daddy can wind down when his shift is over, we finally made it back home in time to watch Drew Carey play pricing games with the very same old people who were probably walking around a Los Angles Walmart earlier that day. Score.

(Yes, I do consider the Price is Right to be a valuable, entertaining, educational part of a child's life, by the way).

Just as we were getting to the Showcase Showdown we heard yelling coming from out side. One of the morbidly obese, sweatpants-wearing people across the street was screaming at his daughter for who knows what. I looked outside and saw the man wearing one of the very same "Big Dog" t-shirts I had seen earlier in the store and I realized that if Walmart were a street, it would be Roslyn Street. It is loud, there are a ton of kids, old people and stray pets, and nothing looks like i is worth much more than $20. All that's missing is the automotive department with the plastic spinning hub caps. That's probably one street over.

Episode 10- The one where I realize I'm old

I wasn't going to write anything today because I promised myself I wouldn't force anything just for the sake of writing, but just when I thought I had a day off from my own mind I was torn out of bed by a horrible realization.

I'm old.

Obviously, I know, and have always known, sans a few drunken evenings in college, how old I am by number. I am 25. Still young by most standards, but man, am I one old 25.

You would think that I would have realized this at some point in the past few years when I began doing decidedly "older" things. Like, I don't know, graduating college and getting a real job, moving out of a beach side frat house and in with my girlfriend, trading in my Saturn for a 4-door sedan (A very COOL Chevy Impala I might add, but a sedan nonetheless), and, of course, fathering a child.

But it wasn't really until about 15 minutes ago that it all hit me, when I experienced a culmination of events that had been building most of the day.

After a day of doing fatherly things, like waking up at 6 a.m., getting irritated at the grocery store, running to the White Hen in my slippers to get milk, etc... I had to go to the hospital to sign up for Mass Health since, you know, I quit that job I had with the benefits.

I made some very fatherly negotiations with Raul the Mass Health adviser and managed to avoid getting raped by the state on my premium-- for now-- and proudly set my sights on manipulating some more people- mainly the tourists in the restaurant tonight.

*EDITOR'S NOTE- I originally inserted a rather lengthy rant about how much of a racket Mass Health, and the health care industry as a whole is here, but remembered both the purpose of this blog and my new commitment to staying calm and omitted it*

About 5-minutes in to my shift tonight I found myself in a sea of conversation I hadn't heard in almost 4 years.

"How were your classes this week?"

"Hey, do we have the same psych teacher?"

"Yo, there are some fly-ass bitches in my class this year, bro." (actual quote)

Our manager came downstairs to address the staff before we started our shifts (a ritual the management team predictably calls 'pre-meal') and, again, all of the conversation was about school.

"How was everyone's first week of school?"

"Ehh, sucks to be back, I miss sleeping in."

"UGH! I have a 9 a.m. biology lab."

Screw you, scientist, most days I am on my second nap by 9 a.m.

This went on for most of the night as I found myself talking to the 32-year-old guy I work with who has two kids for most of my shift and avoiding the cool college crew. All of this adulthood and fathering finally came to a head when I got home.

It was a fairly early night in general, and I managed to avoid the "I just want to get a fucking beer" feeling I usually have after steadily serving them to other people for hours on end, and actually made it home by about 10:15.

After a very un-adult dinner of freeze pops and Gatoraid, I decided I should probably turn in, since, you know, I have no reason to be awake.

This, of course, is where things took a turn.

As I was laying in bed trying to get to sleep I found myself becoming increasingly more irritated with the conversation going on amongst the kids on the balcony of the apartment across the street.

"Dude, I have this such and such class this semester. Its awesome, I feel like I'm back in high school it is so easy!"

"Hey, bro, so and so canceled my first class next week. AWESOME!"

"hehehe, Brandon, your so funny, I can't believe we have the same professor for biology!"

Just as the celebratory screams from the keg stands or drinking games or whatever poured in to my open window I caught myself getting super pissed. So pissed that I was going to go outside in my underwear and yell something like,
"I swear to fucking God if one of you assholes wake up my kid you won't make it to class on Monday!"

That's when it all came crashing down. The difference between 23 and 25 might as well be from here to Japan. A few years ago I probably would have thrown a beer can at the guy yelling up to my balcony and wondered how anyone could be such a stiff.

This, loyal readers will note, would likely have been one of those other times in my life, prior to this week, when I had the pleasure of experiencing the 6 a.m. hour.

What have I learned from this? Probably nothing. Other than I am older than I want to be. But on thing is for sure, my daughter is going to learn that being young is a fleeting gift, and she should probably cry less because she has no idea how good she has it.

Dammit. Looks like my father was right again... He is undefeated so far.

Seriously though. If these kids don't shut the hell up soon...

Episode 9- What is this 6 a.m. that you speak off?

I really don't know how people do it- wake up at 6 a.m. every day. Some people even wake up at 6 a.m. and do shit like go to the gym, or dig holes at construction sites. Impossible.

Today is the first day that I am home with my daughter all day, and I knew "all day" meant early, but I don't think I was prepared for this. Hell, it is only 11:27 and I feel like it should be dinner time.

I knew that there was a time called 6 a.m. I vaguely remember waking up at that time for special occasions like long trips, or to grab a spot at the 4th of July parade when I was like, 12, with my Dad.

I have probably seen 6 a.m. from the other side a bit more often. "Holy shit, it is 6 a.m. I have to go to sleep. I have class in three hours." Or worse, "I have work in three hours." Just thinking about it makes me want to throw up.

I never had to wake up that early as a reporter, hell, I worked at a place where my boss didn't come in until 11. That 8:30 a.m. start up time was a mere suggestion. As long as you were in the office at some point and you managed to get your three stories in to the folder, so one asked any questions. For two and a half years my 8:30-4:30 was usually more like 9:30-4.

I understand why a 7-month-old with no internal clock can be up at 6, but there is no excuse for adults. This is painful. I am literally in pain. I want to punch every gym teacher I have ever had that bragged about waking up before the sun.

I am sure that it is just because I am not used to it yet, but I am finding out that there is surprisingly little to do with a baby.

We go for walks, make faces at each other, crawl around on the floor, and the ever popular, look in the mirror and yell YAAAAAAYYYYY! Gets a laugh every time. But as far as "playing" goes, there is very little for me to do other than supervise. We literally interact through a series of faces and loud noises, its not like we can whip out Jenga.

I am having trouble filling the gaps after she gets bored. Av is not much of a napper, so we are only good for about one of those today, and I risk overfeeding her if I keep trying to shovel Gerber in to her mouth whenever I am bored.

The main problem is that babies are in no way self-sustaining, so in order for me to do things like take a shower, eat food or clean my apartment, she must be asleep. When she is awake, I must entertain her, not myself. And she doesn't like chores.

Right now she is parked in front of the TV, chewing on a giant plastic play telephone, watching multi-cultural children with hand puppets sing the ABC's.
This is the essence of the "Baby Einstein" series, something I suspect you will be reading more about here, or in the local news under the headline "Local man has seizure, experts say children's videos to blame"

All in all, I haven't done anything to mess up my kid yet, as far as I know, and sh seems pretty happy to be home with Dad, so that is good. This 6 a.m. crap has to stop though, I am afraid I am going to fall asleep standing up.

Well, we should go now as she has discovered my typing and is now eying the computer keys with that "I HAVE to drool on that!" face, similar to a cat who sees a piece of furniture and says "I HAVE to scratch that!" Same concept.

Babies are surprisingly like cats in a lot of ways. Except cats sleep all day. Babies just toy with you...

Episode 8: Please accept this B.L.T. as a symbol of our gratitude

So, that's it. It is over. With one last story filed about college enrollment in a bad economy and an obligatory office lunch I am about to ride off in to the sunset, destined to be remembered in dusty archive rooms and yellowed clippings thumb-tacked to family bulletin boards.

I know better than to say “never,” but if all goes well today will be the last day I will ever spend as a newspaper reporter. Over the past five years I have spent the vast majority of my life in a newsroom of some kind, whether it was nights interning in the sports department at the Salem News, days napping in my cubicle at the Malden Observer or mid-mornings pretending I was on the phone to avoid someone's pointless story at the Lynn Item.

I have written thousands of stories in that time, ranging from pointless crap like the opening of nail salons to the life-changing breaking news that someone has been killed or a fire has ravaged a neighborhood. But one thing I think you take for granted as a reporter is that no matter what the story is, every single word that you write is going to have an impact on someone's life in one way or another.

Too often reporters look at sources as people who fill holes in the stories with quotes, and, worse, think more about how they are going to drum up controversy and sell newspapers with their story than how the story itself is going to impact those involved.

I would say that over 80 percent of the stories I wrote as a reporter garnered some sort of response, good or bad, either from the people directly involved or someone with a strong opinion. I have helped candidates get elected to office (and in turn, documented plenty of defeat) and memorialized the deceased, all with the words that I have typed on a series of ill-performing computers.

At the same time, I can remember dozens of battles fought, Mothers upset that I wrote about their child's drug arrest, the catholic school parents who were upset that I included quotes from their kids about how unhappy they were to attend a mandatory after prom party, the hooker who left me a message saying she was a “woman of dignity” after I made sure her mug shot got on the police page.
I even called the mother of a Marine in Iraq selfish in a heated shouting match one day because she was mad that I didn't mention her son enough in a story about an Iraq War support group.

Reporters are a rare breed, you have to be able to deal with the general public on a daily basis. It makes you hard. It gives you street cred. Reporters are the gangstas of the writing industry. In a discussion with someone last week I lamented the fact that in five years I have never been nervous about any story that I have written in a newspaper, yet the second I write something creative I won't even show it to my closest friend because of pure anxiety. That's the thick skin. I know what I write in that paper is fact and I know why it is there. When I write creatively, I have no audience. I have no one to prove myself to.

Over the years I have worked with some of the sleaziest, most ruthless reporters, always trying to dig up dirt, as well as some of the laziest and most apathetic.

“Wait- there is a fire? Where? Ugh. Why can't the fires ever start in the morning when I get to work?”

I would like to think that I am somewhere in the middle. I am by no means hard hitting- in fact, I prefer not to know about most people's indiscretions because, lets face it, I wouldn't want anyone to know about mine. At the same time, this job does provide with it an obligation to report the information that is important to people's lives, and to do so fairly.

Some days I stop and think, though, “how good could I have been at this job if I actually tried?”

The problem with me is that when all is said and done, I really just don't care. I have a lot going on in my own life, I can't be spending my days at work worrying about what other people are doing in theirs. Sure, I've had my causes. I am still convinced that the parents of an 11-year-old boy supposedly beat up in school three years ago kicked his ass and put him in a wheel chair and made up the story to cover their asses- but for the most part, I truly do not want to know what is happening. I don't even watch the news.

My involvement in this industry was not based on my desire to be a reporter. It was based on my desire to be a writer. I know I can write. I may not like what I write all of the time, but whenever I feel that way, someone always steps up and pays me a compliment to help me keep going. But I don't want to write about other people's lives any more. Now it is time to focus and write about my own.

Memories aside, my last day here was pretty much just like any other day, aside from the obligatory “you're leaving” office lunch. I appreciate what my coworkers did, buying me a B.L.T. (my choice) for lunch and I know that they are all going to miss me, but I am really banking on getting out of here without having to hug anyone and without giving a flowery speech.

...As I finish typing that sentence, I have the following exchange.

Chris: Well, Dan, I think it is time for your cake.
Me: Cake? There is cake?
Chris: When have you ever know us to do anything without cake?

As most of you reading this know, I am about as socially awkward as they come and the only thing I hate more than forced work functions is forced work functions about me. Now, as I also hate to do, I am going to be forced to talk about myself. Still, it is a nice gesture with the cake. And the BLT. And I'm sure there will be a “goodbye” card signed by the office.

Maybe I'll put my cynicism aside for the next half hour. It is the least I can do, I suppose.

Episode 7: It's ILLUSIONIST, Dad...

Today is Sept. 1, 2009 and I am less than 48 hours away from becoming a former newspaper reporter. Hopefully, less than 48 hours away from walking out of the Lynn Item newsroom for the last time ever as a full-time employee, and hopefully 48 hours away from never having to have the following exchange again.

Random person :'What do you do for work?”
Me: “I am a newspaper reporter during the day.”
Random Person: “Ohhhhh that is so cool!”
Me: “Everyone thinks that but its really...(cut off)”
Random Person: “You know what you should write about... (insert irritating cause here – popular choices include teens overdosing on Oxycontin and problems with the public schools)

As I have briefly discussed with earlier examples, I have covered a lot of shitty stories and even shittier people since I have been at the Item, but today in thinking back I remembered one of the worst interviews I have ever had to do, and I feel like I have to share it.

It actually happened about a year before I started working at the Item, when I was at my old job as a weekly community reporter in Malden working for a giant, evil, corporate newspaper company called CNC.

My primary job at this paper was to read the daily newspaper in town, steal story ideas and update them for when our paper came out on Wednesdays, but I also spent a lot of time, as I do here, writing really, really painful public interest feature stories about residents who think they are much more important than they actually are. (I think the most famous person ever from Malden was Gary Cherone. Former Van Halen front man and half of the acoustic pop duo Extreme, best known for their romantic hit 'More than Words').

Now, every feature story I have ever written has been painful in its own way. Like the time I had to write about a free community art class and arrived to find a nude model, which I was later forced to draw. But perhaps the most excruciating experience I can remember was with a magician from Malden who was trying to make a name for himself by doing table side tricks during the Friday night dinner rush at the Dockside Restaurant.

Much in the same way that I hate clowns, I also hate magicians, or illusionists, or whatever they prefer to be called. I hate David Copperfield and Chris Angel and David Blane. In fact, the only magician I have ever been able to tolerate is Gob Bluth. A fictional character from the long-canceled (unjustly) Fox sitcom Arrested Development. Gob Bluth was brilliantly played by Will Arnett as a parody of an unsuccessful David Copperfield-type magician who fails miserably at all of his tricks.

I don't remember his name off the top of my head, but I remember the Malden magician I interviewed to be much like Gob Bluth. Both men were consumed by the idea of becoming the greatest magician in the world, but the majority of the tricks they tried didn't exactly work out. That is to say, there were a lot of props that hit the floor, and a few card tricks that didn't make a lot of sense.

“Still, where'd the lighter fluid come from?”

I will never forget this interview. We met at the Dockside around 5 p.m. on a Friday so we could talk before he started “working.” He told me about his first magic kit and how he grew up learning about Houdini and all the other crap you'd expect to hear from a magician. Things didn't really start to get awkward until the customers came in.

Essentially this guy just walked over to the table and said 'do you want to see a trick?' No lie, I probably saw him guess the correct card about 60 percent of the time he did one of those 'take a card, any card' things. Not a good average for a magician. The worst, though, was when he would try to pull something out of his sleeve or from under his hat. He probably would have done better if he wasn't so clumsy, but he just kept fumbling around with everything and pissing off the customers.

I don't know what ever happened to this guy, but I haven't seen his name out and about in the local press, so I am guessing he is either still at the Dockside or maybe he is trying to get some jobs fooling children at birthday parties. I do remember that he bought like 50 copies of the paper from us when the story ran. Poor kid.

I will never forget how awkward that interview was and I promise no magicians at any of my daughter's birthday parties.

With one day left at the Item I am still fielding my fair share of 'oh man, its your last day soon," bullshit, but I have managed to spend the majority of my day frequenting a wide variety of convenience stores and sandwich shops.

Unfortunately, I have to go to Girls Incorporated this afternoon because some underprivileged kids are trying to save the environment by putting stickers on paper towel dispensers urging people to consume less paper.

I pointed out to the organizer (who said the stickers were NOT made of recycled paper) that they were essentially consuming more by doing that, but that got me little more than an attitude on the other end of the phone.

Potential update to follow...